


Always the Hunter, Never the Prey

by apfelpomme



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn, Vampire Marinette, Werecat Adrien Agreste
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-10-25 21:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17732594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apfelpomme/pseuds/apfelpomme
Summary: Marinette is a pureblood vampire, cursed with the ability to create more of her kind. She has grown aloof over the centuries but an encounter with a captivating blonde ignites her interest, and bloodlust. She reenters the public sphere as an influential designer, hiring model Adrien Agreste as her muse. Meanwhile, an out-of-control feline shapeshifter wreaks havoc in her territory. Love square, Spooktober AU. Crossposted on ffn.net





	1. Awakening

_Knock knock._

“Ugh, five more minutes,” Marinette grumbles at the intruding noise.

“It’s been over thirty years. It’s time to get up,” a familiar male voice counters.

“Thirty years?! I overslept!” she cries, swinging open the wooden lid of her coffin. Light floods her sensitive vision, causing her to hiss and shade her eyes with her arm as she adjusts. Still disoriented, she looks around, two figures coming into focus. “Luka…Juleka…” besides a few changes in fashion and hair color, the two look the same as she remembers.

The Couffaine siblings are the closest thing she has to family—the only vampires she’s ever turned. They are each other’s only constants in a world full of change. Marinette had never intended to turn anyone, but when she saw her two friends bloodied and dying in a carriage accident, she had to act. She doesn’t regret it. Juleka is like a sister to her. Luka is like—well, that’s a bit more complicated.

Scanning her room, she sees it too is unchanged. Unless she counts the overall dustiness and moth-eaten elements of the décor a change, it hasn’t been altered since her Art Nouveau phase a century ago. “Weren’t you two supposed to care for the estate while I was resting?”

“We’ve been busy,” Luka explains, “I’m a musician now. Juleka’s going to university,” A rush of pride flows through her at their doings. Ever since she’d saved them, altering the course of their lives, they’d been struggling with their new place in the world. Every immortal copes in their own way. Marinette tends to hibernate through rough times. The Couffaine siblings are inclined towards wandering aimlessly, as if searching for something. Purpose, or meaning perhaps. Their current employment might indicate they’re beginning to settle down.

“Plus, this place doesn’t even have Wi-fi. Super boring,” Juleka mutters under her breath, earning an elbow nudge from her brother.

“Wi-Fi?” Marinette questions, before shaking her head, “Never mind. There’s time to catch up later. I need sustenance,”

“About that…” he starts apologetically, “We haven’t exactly been stocking the fridge. But don’t worry, we have a contact. He’s only 15 minutes into the city,” he hands her a card with his details and address. “We’d come with you, but…”

“You’re busy, I understand. Where’s the keys?” he pulls out an electronic key fob.

“That’s not for my Thunderbird…is it?”

“We sold that one. Turns out there’s quite a demand for classic cars. The new one’s much more practical,” Juleka clarifies.

“I’m just going to take a cab,” Marinette sighs, brushing past them and going stiffly down the stairs of her manor. She dials for a taxi on her old landline, only to hear it flatline.

“I’m getting you an Uber,” Luka calls out, following her down the stairs.

“I’m not even going to ask. As long as it gets me to my meal, I don’t care,” she huffs, increasingly frustrated the foreignness of this time. She’d never intended to slumber for more than 15 or so years at once. Even that stretch of time can be tricky to adjust to. The pair must have been busy indeed if they neglected to wake her for so long. The thirst is starting to catch up to her.

It was in times like these she grows jealous of how easy they have it. For an ordinary vampire, anyone can be a meal ticket. There’re no worries of consequences because there essentially are none. For her, all humans are off-limits. Unless it’s to save a life or take one, her fangs can’t break their skin without creating unwanted kindred. Her saving grace is a network of supernatural folk, a system of support where each kind can lend its strength to one in need. Nonhumans are unaffected by her bite, so she can feed on witches, wizards, and other species to her heart’s content. In return, they’ll usually want money, historical insight, or a task completed requiring superhuman strength. Her contact this time is Nino Lahiffe, amateur sorcerer.

“There’s another way, you know. You don’t need anyone else. I’m right here, willing and able,” Luka murmurs, low enough that his sister upstairs won’t hear it. She swallows. He’s right, there is another option. One of the benefits of her pureblood is that it allows her to subsist off another vampires’ blood. It is a possibility they’d discussed before. It makes much practical sense, for her to rely on the one who she’d known for so long and knows she can trust. The implications, however, she is entirely unprepared for. Long-term, living off him as he’s suggesting…

“I’m not ready. I-I just woke up—I need to think about it a bit more,” she stammers, delaying any finality. Last time, she’d been the one to suggest it and he the one to dodge the decision. For as long as they’d known each other, they were out of sync. Whenever she’d wanted more from him, he’d only want to “explore” and pursue casual flings. Inversely, when he shows interest, she’s never in the right emotional state. Neither one has ever fully rejected or accepted the other. It was a perpetual, frustrating game of tag.

They sit on the porch awaiting her “Uber” and Luka takes the opportunity to fill her on what she’s missed since the 80s. It was mostly technological advances and cultural fluctuations she needed to catch up on. He was in the middle of explaining the internet to her, for the third time, when a car pulls up. “That’s your ride,” he states, standing up, “Take my extra phone. If you’re still confused on how to use it, have your contact show you. And don’t forget your mask,” she accepts the device, and begins towards the car. Digging in the pockets of her high-waisted jeans, she finds her old black and red polka dot half-face mask. The cloth covers her mouth and nose, diminishing her sense of smell. Its purpose is twofold: helping their self-control around humans and decreasing the likelihood of someone recognizing them from decades ago and getting suspicious. “Marinette!” he calls out before she enters the vehicle, “I missed you.” She smiles sadly beneath the mask, giving a small wave goodbye.

The drive is quiet, except for the peppy tunes from the radio. She takes the opportunity to take inventory of herself. Her hair had grown long during her sleep, almost reaching her legs. It is unruly after decades of bedhead and hangs loose around her shoulders. _It needs a trim_. A haircut is priority number two, after getting fed. Next step would be updating her wardrobe, though she doesn’t feel as out of place as she expected in her vinyl jacket and acid wash jeans. Normally she’d expect to need a bath after such a long sleep, but ever since upgrading to a sandalwood coffin, she woke up freshly fragrant.

The vehicle slows to a halt half a block away from her destination, in a convenient drop-off. She thanks the driver and strolls to Nino’s flat. Halfway there, she sees someone exiting the flat. _That better not be my contact. He should be expecting me._ The figure is a lithe blonde with emerald eyes. Even though his clothes are plain, Marinette is rapt. _He’s beautiful_.

A car horn tears away her attention, honking at an elderly woman who’s stumbled and collapsed on the street. Before she can react, the blonde is rushing to the scene. He helps the woman up, assisting in picking up her things and letting her hold onto him for balance. He displays incredible patience and empathy in his manner with her, taking extra care in slowly escorting her across the street. _He’s positively angelic_ , she marvels. It takes more willpower than she’d like to admit to not pursue him. Instead she knocks on the door to the flat, hoping her contact could enlighten her as to the stunning stranger’s identity.

A tanned man with thick frame glasses and a red cap opens the door. “Yo! I’m Nino. You must be Luka’s…friend, Marinette?” he greets, friendly and a bit flustered.

“I am,” she confirms, stepping inside and removing her mask, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. How do you know Luka?”

“We’ve done a couple gigs together. He’s a chill dude. Juleka’s cool too, we’ve had a couple classes together. So,” he starts uncertainly, “You’re old? Like ancient history old?” Marinette snorts, unsure whether to be offended or amused.

“Yes, I am,”

“Whoa. I know the Couffaine’s are old-timers but you’re straight up medieval, right? That’s so sweet,”

“Uh, thanks,” Marinette replies, taken aback by his enthusiasm. “You’re a sorcerer, aren’t you?” politely shifting the topic.

“I’m a technomancer. I’ve also been told my DJ-ing skills are mad magical. Sorry—I’m probably talking too much, huh? This is my first time doing something like this. You must be hungry. I’ve been drinking plenty of water and stocked up on bandages. Is that all we need?” She nods reassuringly.

“Let’s move somewhere comfortable and get started. Will your left arm be okay?” he confirms, and they sit on the coach, Marinette holding steady his left arm. “Some pain is normal but let me know if anything feels wrong. Tap my shoulder if you need me to stop,”

“Well, uh, groovy. I think I’m ready,” he smiles apprehensively. Marinette leans in for a deep inhale, taking in his scent. She runs her tongue over her extended fangs, salivating already. Closing her eyes, she bites into his wrist. He winces, but keeps his squirming restrained. After the initial stab of the sharp incisors, the pain fades and he experiences only queasy discomfort as his blood is drained. A minute passes and she pulls away, licking her lips and breathing heavily.

“Stay seated, I’ll get you a bandage,” she orders, retrieving some gauze and covering the wound with an elastic wrap. Energy flows through her, banishing her earlier lethargy. “Are you alright?”

“Affirmative. It wasn’t that bad,” he declares, mildly surprised.

“Good. What would you like in return?”

“There’s this project I’ve been working on. I need your help with it. C’mon, I’ll show you what I’ve got so far,” he gets up slowly, testing his constitution. Once he feels steady on his feet, he leads her to a back room. _A history project? Or maybe he needs me to bend some steel?_ Marinette is thrown for a loop when he shows her a room filled to the brim with technology. Wires, extension cords, and chargers litter the floor like vines in the jungle. There are several desks set up with desktops, speakers, and even a projector. A shelf set up with servers lights up green and blue. She barely recognizes any of it. Her bafflement grows as Nino begins explaining his project. “I’ve been researching methods of channeling the otherworldly. Witches’ and mediums’ methods were super inefficient, drawing only from psychic energy. Using technomancy, I can channel spirits using the speed and processing power of an internet connection!”

“You’re saying you can summon ghosts…using wi-fi?” she inquires in amazement. She recalls all the times she’d attempted to summon her best friend Alya’s spirit over the years. Ouija boards, seances, and rituals were just the beginning. She’d pestered almost every witch she knew to find her, but it was all in vain. Eventually Marinette had agonizingly accepted her friend had moved on to the other side. It was the traumatic loss of Alya that triggered her voluntary hibernations of the last century. _If what he’s saying is true, maybe I can get her back!_

“Exactamundo. All I need is material to draw them in with, personal information and something from their life, and then I can hook up their consciousness to my system! Genius, right?”

“It really is… how can I help?” she enthuses, surprising Nino with her eagerness.

“I don’t know any dead people. Not closely, at least. Even though the process is streamlined, I still need intimate knowledge of a specific spirit, and something to draw them here. Since you’ve been around so long…I assume you know plenty of dead people who might have unfinished business?”

“I do. I know just who to try it with! Her name was—is, Alya Cesaire. She has hazel eyes and a beauty mark over her right eyebrow. She—”

“Whoa, slow down there. Let me pull up the program,” he takes a seat at one of the desks, booting up the machine. After a few clicks of the mouse, he rambles, “Okay…hazel eyes…eyebrow mark…” typing each detail into the system. “Go on,”

“She was born March 8th, 1899. Her eyesight was bad, she always wore black framed glasses. She’s medium height. Her hair is dark red. She’s a middle child, she was always great with children. She was a suffragette.  Her dream was to be a journalist…she’s so brave…” as Nino types away Marinette is overcome with sorrow.

“Sounds like an amazing dudette,” he comments, eyes glued to the screen in front of him. “I just need a couple more things. How did she die?” Marinette breathes deeply, composing herself.

“She was killed. Murdered by a mob who didn’t like what she was doing. Thought it wasn’t right, sticking her nose in men’s business…their boss didn’t like it, felt threatened by her…” tears prick at her eyes. “It was in an alleyway outside a speakeasy. She was only 23.” This time Nino notices the emotion in her voice and gives her a moment before speaking.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to keep talking about it if you don’t want to,”

“No, I want to do this. What else do you need to know?”

“Just one more thing—what unfinished business do you think she has? Did her killers get away with it?” Marinette chuckles humorlessly.

“They most certainly did not. I tracked down each one. They died slowly,” she confesses, remorseless and almost proud of her vengeance on Alya’s behalf.

“Oh,” he mumbles, feeling fear in her presence for the first time. “Then what could her unfinished business be?”

“I have no idea,” she sighs. “Maybe it’s that she never got to accomplish her dream or get to see women vote. Maybe it’s me. It could be she’s never forgiven me for not protecting her,”

“I’ll just put down ‘unknown’, for now,” he decides. “All that’s left now is for me to work my magic. Since you two were close, your presence here should be enough to lure her spirit. Moment of truth,” he rubs his hands together and stands. He arranges the cords into a semblance of a summoning circle, placing his hands in the center. Sparks begin to surge from his palms, entangling themselves in the wires. He feels a bit lightheaded, from both the vampire’s intimidating presence and the exertion of the spell. _Oh, and blood loss,_ he remembers, before collapsing.

“Nino? Nino!” Marinette kneels next to him, shaking his shoulder. “Out cold,” she notes regretfully. _Maybe I took too much. I was a bit thirsty_. She picks him up, carrying him to the couch. She prepares a glass of water for him to drink when he wakes. It was common for sorcerers to black out when attempting a powerful spell. _Maybe he just overestimated his capabilities._

The bluenette waits by his side until he recovers, bringing him food and a blanket. After five minutes, he begins to stir. “I’m sorry, Marinette,” he apologizes, “I couldn’t get your friend back,”

“Shh, don’t worry about that. We can try again. It will work. But don’t worry about it until you feel better,” she rises from the floor, brushing herself off. “I just have one question before I leave.”

“What is it?”

“Earlier, I saw a man leave your flat. Blonde, green eyes. Who is he?”

“Adrien Agreste. Figures he’d catch your eye, that model boy always makes me look like a moronosaurus in comparison,” Nino scoffs and jokes, while smiling affectionately.

“He’s a model…hmm,” she murmurs to herself, then tells Nino with a maternal tone, “I called your number with my new phone, so you know how to contact me. Call me if you need anything okay? I’ll check up on you tomorrow, with cookies. It was nice meeting you, Nino.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he responds, myriad emotions mixing within him as he watches her leave. Meanwhile, Marinette is only feeling one thing: triumph. Before today, she had no idea it was still possible to find Alya. Now it was only a matter of time before they were reunited. Not to mention the angelic boy from earlier was not only an Agreste, but a model. While it had been decades since she’d dabbled in the fashion world, her connections went way back. Her “grandmother” knew Coco Chanel, her “father” not only worked with Christian Dior but bailed out his company when Group Arnault went bankrupt. The public couldn’t know it was her legacy directly, but they’d still respect her “family’s” accomplishments. The Dupain-Cheng name holds weight. It would be simple to use that influence to put Adrien Agreste exactly where she wanted him—in her studio, possibly in her arms, wearing her designs. _Get ready, Paris. Here I come._


	2. Night-time Encounters

_One week later…_

The letters arrived in the mail the day before yesterday. They had been sealed with a wax stamp inscribed with flowing initials “LB”. The paper itself was high quality and the lettering was handwritten calligraphy. Their contents were simple: an invitation to a fashion show and ball, thrown by “Ladybug” Dupain-Cheng. Gabriel Agreste judged it as a prank, or a wannabe designer trying to win him over with fancy stationery. He’d tossed it in the rubbish bin, encouraged Adrien to do the same with his invite. Those judgements had been before the talk started.

Rumors flew, the contents of which were erratic. Some were about the only evidence of a Ladybug brand—fashion lines from over 50 years ago. Others arose from the Dupain-Cheng name, ancestors of the author of the letter, fraternizing with Paris’ fashion elite over the last century. The invitation claimed the location to of the event be none other than André Bourgeois’ hotel Le Grand Paris. If true, it would suggest either copious amounts of money or a connection with the Mayor. As more and more influential people voiced their intention to attend, Gabriel was forced to eat his words. The man insisted his son attend as well. He still harbored suspicion towards this mysterious upstart, but to miss out on this event could damage their reputation.

Adrien isn’t concerned with any of that. It isn’t the standing of the host, or any of the social repercussions of attending the party that worries him…just the timing. Last month, he’d started undergoing disturbing transformations at night. Black fur grew over his arms and calves and enclosed his eyes like a mask. A pair of feline ears sprouted on his head, accompanied by a tail. His nails morphed into claws, teeth extending into fangs. At first, he thought he’d been drugged. His nightmarish appearance only a hallucination and his violent outbursts a side effect. After a week of refusing to consume anything he hadn’t prepared himself, it happened again. He’d have questioned his sanity if not for the large scratch marks left on his apartment’s walls, and the shedding on his white sofa. Even though he still didn’t understand what was happening to him, he had the sense to keep it a secret. An escape plan became necessary if he were required to leave the house at night. The episodes are unpredictable, and their frequency is increasing.

A superstitious part of him expects he’d been cursed. He racks his mind for any memory of a mysterious person he’d offended, or a mythological being that he’d wronged unknowingly. Before this, his life had been perfectly ordinary. A few google searches had only reinforced the impression of his problem’s supernatural origin. Black cats are notoriously unlucky, and the transformation’s nocturnal nature remind him of the legend of swan lake, mixed with werewolves. It made little sense. If it were a curse, why hadn’t whoever he’d angered explained its purpose? Weren’t those things usually meant to teach lessons? Unless the lack of knowledge was a part of his punishment. Uncertainty roils in his gut as he dresses for the occasion.

His father had him fitted for a custom suit, a light gray with a double-breasted vest. The button-down shirt beneath it is a light jade, embroidered subtly with silvery vines as a statement piece. A small bundle of baby’s breath adorns his lapel. He tucks his phone and keys into one of the jetted pockets and takes off.

A valet parks his Lexus while he checks in. An attendant checks his name off the list and guides him to his seats, front row to the runway. He looks about for any sign of his father, or the hostess, but neither are visible in the throngs of guests. Adrien flags down a waiter toting flutes of champagne, resigning himself to what will probably be a boring evening of being snubbed and schmoozed by snobs.

The seats adjacent to him gradually fill up with executives. _Did someone make a mistake? I’m not sure I’m meant to be here._ The blonde may be an Agreste, but as a model he didn’t find himself among their caliber. He’s accustomed to socializing with photographers and make-up artists, not administrators. Obligatory introductions are exchanged with those adjacent. He is spared from most small talk by the lights dimming, signaling the start of the show.

The raised platform lights up with overhead spotlights and music starts playing. Curtains are drawn, allowing the first model to saunter onward. She has long raven hair, woven into an intricate bun. Her bangs and a few long strands hang loose, framing her pale face. Half of her face is obscured by an elegant lace mask, curving over her forehead, cheeks and chin. Bold red spots dot the black lace. A dramatic, crimson gown hugs her figure, swaying with her confident strides. Instead of striking a pose and retreating, the woman pauses at the end of the runway.

“Welcome,” her voice booms from the speakers, “I am your hostess, Ladybug Dupain-Cheng. I am honored by your attendance and hope you all are relishing the evening. Tonight, I will be debuting my premier line of the century: ‘Parvenu Pastiche’. Inspired by the concept of retro-modernism, it embodies harmonious coexistence of the old-fashioned and the trendy. Enjoy!” Ladybug steps off the platform and into her chair at the head of the runway.

Without further introduction, the show proceeds. Adrien is impressed with the level of detail on each piece, and the breadth of styles. She can’t be much older than he is, it’s admirable that she’d harnessed so much complexity in her designs already. _I wonder what father makes of her._

When the performance is finished, guests are ushered into the neighboring ballroom. Adrien is pleasantly surprised by the spread of hors d'oeuvres being served. He lingers around the catering tables, picking off their supply of camembert. Partygoers dance to the waltz played by the live orchestra. He keeps his eyes peeled for any sign of his father, but only catches sight of the hostess herself walking towards him.

Ladybug looks him up and down, assessing him openly, “Gauche…but charming and finely tailored. It fits you well. The baby’s breath is a nice touch. Surprising though, that you would wear a symbol of everlasting love to an event such as this. Is it a mistake, or a sign?” _Is…is she flirting with me?_ Adrien gulps down his mouthful of cheese, flustered.

“Innocence. It also represents purity and innocence,” he informs clumsily.

“I’m to believe you’re an innocent one, Mr. Agreste?” she teases. The media tended to portray him as an eligible bachelor, a heartbreaker. The reality is less glamorous. Even in adulthood, his father “protected” him from would-be admirers getting close to him, telling Adrien they were only after his money and fame. The only women Gabriel allows near him are vapid heiresses, like Chloe. Not his type, to say the least. The result is Adrien is rather inexperienced, and well, innocent. He didn’t care to correct the gossip, letting people see him as a player. It is less embarrassing for him than the truth.

“You—you know me? I don’t think we’ve met,”

“We haven’t. I’m a fan of your work, you have talent. Care to dance?” She gestures towards the dancefloor and he nods civilly. Ladybug takes the lead, placing one hand on his shoulder and interlocking the other with his own. Butterflies flutter in his stomach at their closeness. Once their movements sync up with the song’s tempo, she begins to speak, “Forgive my forthrightness, but I am interested in bringing you on as a model. Ah, rather, the best word for it is…a muse. Most of your work wouldn’t be under the camera. You’d work directly with me in the creative process. I’m not sure what they’re paying you currently…but I am sure I can top it. I can also assure you that working conditions under me will be more favorable than other modeling gigs. No long, outdoor shoots in the summer heat. What do you think?”

A job offer was very low on the list of things he’d expected from the night. Especially coming from the suave designer. It wasn’t something he was looking for, per say, but he couldn’t deny the attractiveness of it. Working under his father had certain conveniences, however, the stifling pressure and micromanaging is hardly worth it. Branching out to other employers could also improve his portfolio, demonstrating his worth outside the nepotism of the Agreste brand. “It sounds tempting,” he admits, “What are the hours?”

“Flexible. They will vary based on availability. There will be no early mornings. Late nights are…optional, to your discretion,” she answers triflingly. Adrien blushes at the double entendre. _There’s no way she meant it_ that _way_ , he reasons. _She said it so flippantly._ The offer is turned over in his mind. It almost sounds too good to be true. An urge surfaces, to talk to his father about it and get his permission. He resists it, pushing the habit away. _I’m an adult, I’ll do whatever I damn well please._ He’s sick of his father having so much authority over his life and career. It’s partially his fault for allowing it for so long. It’s past time to put his foot down and take control of his own path, for once.

“I’ll do it,” he agrees impulsively, “When do I start?”

“Excellent! Come to my atelier this Monday at noon,” she halts their dance, retrieving a business card from her bodice and placing it in his hand. “I look forward to working with you, Adrien. Thanks for the dance,” A winning smile is her only goodbye as she leaves him, no doubt to attend to her other guests. Dazed from the unusual encounter, he lingers on the dancefloor. Eventually he withdrawals from the party, deciding he’d left enough of an impression to satisfy his father.

The drive home clears his head. He concludes he shouldn’t have been so hasty accepting an offer like that, but it’s worth giving it a shot. If he didn’t like the work environment he can just— _oh, shit_.

A tingling sensation engulfs his limbs and pressure builds in his skull. He hastily parks, bracing himself for another transformation. Not wanting to damage his new suit, he undresses in the backseat, pulling on black hoodie and sweatpants. His breaths come out in pants as he frantically searches for somewhere to run. He wasn’t sure how his “other side” would react to people and wasn’t about to wait and find out. Locking himself in the truck is looking like his only option until he spies the tops of trees not far off. _A park?_ A secluded spot of nature is difficult to come by in Paris, it would work perfectly for him. He speed-walks, then sprints towards it.

 _Not a park_ , he notices too late. The trees he saw were a small part of the overgrown backyard of a Victorian mansion. Luckily, it looks to be abandoned. Not only is the acreage grown over and wild, but none of the lights are on and many of the fixtures are dilapidated. He isn’t given much time to consider it before he’s brought to his knees.

A final burst of pain overwhelms him, and when he opens his eyes, they’re glowing green. His consciousness becomes clouded with foreign instincts, his ordinary will losing inhibition. His slit pupils dilate and absorb the dark grove before him. Claws digging into the undergrowth, he sniffs the air.

As opposed to Adrien’s sterile apartment, this place teems with life. The richness of the environment is almost enough to draw a purr from him. _This_ is Chat’s natural habitat. He prowls about leisurely, following scent trails of the critters who’ve settled here. After an hour or so of meandering, he sets about exploring the boundaries. The area is enclosed by a tall, imposing fence of stone and metal points. By his approximation, the expanse is the size of several football fields.

His surveying is distracted by a glimpse of movement in his periphery. A roe deer drinks stagnant water from a decrepit marble fountain. It seems unaware of his presence. He keeps it that way, stalking towards it noiselessly. Adrien finds the scene beautiful. Moonlight streaks through the trees’ canopy, dappling the deer with light and making the white fountain almost glow. Chat finds it interesting for other reasons. _Prey_ , he identifies with anticipation. Adrenaline spikes as he nears the skittish animal. Once he’s several meters away, it raises its head and bolts. It must have detected him. He gives chase, bounding after it with a grin. It provides an enjoyable challenge as it zig-zags through the woods. Not used to his reckless speed, he nearly trips over himself a few times in pursuit. His tail helps balance him as her swerves after the nimble deer. In due course, he overtakes the animal, pouncing on it and biting into its throat. He uses his claws to rip into its neck and side. It falls, incapacitated. It blatts noisily until Chat strikes a finishing blow, snapping its neck.

Though disheveled and adrenalized from the hunt, he still grasps a few crucial things about his surroundings. The chase led him close to the main house. Inside it, lights are on, illuminating both himself and his kill. If the lights are on…it isn’t empty. Fear fills Adrien at what could happen if a human left their home to see him in this state. The fear is dwarfed by Chat’s inquisitiveness and he drags his trophy alongside him by the antlers to approach the dwelling. His curiosity isn’t left wanting long.

A woman steps out of the sliding door, into the porchlight. She must’ve been drawn out by the deer’s ungodly racket. It doesn’t take her long for her eyes to land on the source of the commotion. Rather than terror as Adrien expected, she reacts with aggravation.

“You’re trespassing. This is my territory, stray,” she declares, glaring down at him from the porch, tossing her long blue-black hair over her shoulder. “I suggest you leave before you get hurt.” _A threat_ , he registers. Her posture is domineering. If he looks carefully he can spot the tip of a fang in her half-snarl. Her scent is predominantly sandalwood and fresh fabric, but underneath all that he detects something otherworldly—unnatural and beyond the grave. Even with her delicate-looking physique in her equally delicate black nightgown, it’s clear to Chat: _She’s a predator…she’s like me._ He beams, notwithstanding her obvious hostility. _I’m not alone._ The burden of his situation suddenly lightens at the prospect of a who can understand what he’s going through. Someone who he didn’t have to hide from. _Maybe she can help me_ , he thinks hopefully.

“We can share,” he suggests amicably, tossing the recently deceased deer towards her feet as a peace offering. To his disappointment, she remains unimpressed, even repulsed. “You’re not a carnivore?” he asks, a sinking feeling bourgeoning at the possibility he could be wrong about their kindred nature.

“I’m…selective,” she replies uncertainly, taken aback by his behavior towards her. “You really don’t know who I am? What I am?”

“You’re like me,” he states simplistically, walking towards her and stopping a couple feet away, “We can work together. You can help me, and I’ll hunt for you,”

She scoffs, “I am Marinette, descendant of The First, Tikki. I can hunt for myself. What does a mangy cat like you have to offer me?” His pride prickles at her disregard and he steps into her personal space.

“I’m strong, fast, and stealthy,” she pushes him back with her finger on his nose, as if to belittle his points. “I am! I’m even stronger than you!” he claims in frustration, having no idea if it’s true.

“Is that so? If I can prove that you’re not, you’re never setting foot in my territory again,”

“And if I am, you have to help me,” he amends, enthused by the challenge. _If we fight, she’ll be able to see that we’re the same. That we’re equals._

Marinette makes the first move, an uppercut to his chin. He leans back to evade but ends up losing his balance when she kicks him in the chest. The wind is knocked out of him and he’s thrown back against the porch’s railing. He jumps back to his feet, determined to prove himself. He rushes at her, slashing and biting. He only manages to graze her shoulder before she catches his wrists in one hand. She uses her body weight to shove him into the guardrail, pulling back her free fist for a powerful blow. He manages to move his body to the side so her hit barely misses him, instead shattering the wooden banister on impact. Marinette releases her hold his wrists to tend to the splinters lodged in her knuckles.

Taking advantage of her momentary weakness, Chat shoves her through the new gap in the railing, falling with her onto the grass. Pinning her arms into the dirt with his own, he tries to use his own weight as leverage. She struggles against his hold, baring her fangs. A roguish smile stretches over his face and he’s about to call it a victory when she abruptly ceases moving. Her cheeks are colored and she’s staring at her legs. He follows her gaze, to see her nightgown had ridden up in their scuffle. A glimpse of creamy thighs and a hint of pink panties is enough to distract him. It’s all the diversion she needs, and before he knows it their positions are flipped, and those thighs are straddling his waist.

Chat can’t find it in himself to be angry as he looks up at Marinette’s grinning face. Her long hair tickles his neck as she smirks down at him.

“Do you concede I’m stronger?” she asks. His ears flatten against his head and he looks away. _I’m never going to see her again if I say yes._ He diverts his attention from his imminent defeat to the discomforting sensation of her bleeding hand restraining his wrist.

“Is your hand okay?” he observes the scrape on her shoulder is already healed over, but the wounds on her fingers remain fresh.

“It will be,” she answers vaguely. Though not his intention, his wide eyes and pitiable countenance remind her of an abandoned kitten. It tugs at her heart strings. _Perhaps I was too defensive with him_ , she considers, _he seems more lost than dangerous_. She sighs and withdraws her vice-like grip from his arms and removes herself from on top of him. “You don’t have to leave.” Chat’s ears shoot back up at her softened tone. “I mean tonight, yes, you do have to leave because I’m busy and you can’t keep dragging that dead deer around my yard. But if you really do need help…you can come back,”

“I will,” he promises with gratitude, lifting himself up. He clasps her hand and nuzzles it briefly, running off back into the woods before she can change her mind.

At dawn, he wakes as his normal self, plus one massive headache, in the shade of a tree. He manages to sneak to his car without being seen by anyone. Once in his car, his motives are split as to where he should go. Part of him only wants to go home and shower all the dirt and blood off himself. Another part is urging him to go back and see Marinette. His memories of the night are murky, but he recalls her clearly. _She’s amazing_ , he recollects her inhuman strength and healing abilities. More urgent to his situation, she seems to know things about what he is and what’s happening to him. If he knocked on her door right now, he could apologize for his behavior and straightforwardly ask for an explanation. The only downside is she’d learn his identity. Seeing how wary she was of him last night, trusting her with that information could be risky. What if she held a grudge against Chat and told the world Adrien Agreste is a crazy cat-man at night? _I just can’t risk it_ , he sighs, starting his car and driving home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ve learned a lot about cat behavior trying to write this fic. A common misconception is that cats are solitary creatures. While they aren’t as social as dogs, they do get lonely and need companionship. Cougars sometimes share kills with each other and do each other “favors”, which inspired Chat trying to share the deer with Marinette.  
> This chapter, a summary:
> 
>  
> 
> Marinette- “Hippity hoppity get off my property”  
> Chat- “How about, instead, I don’t do that?”


	3. Unfinished Business

It is amazing how many tasks can build up over thirty years. Marinette feels like her to-do list is long enough to strangle her. First, there’s her wardrobe. She and Juleka had gone shopping last week, exploring every mall and outlet around. It had been loads of fun. Productive though…not so much. The choices were overwhelming, and that was before she had learned about online shopping. In the end the bluenette couldn’t settle on much, only buying a few necessities. It became even more of a job with the realization that as a blossoming designer, she should wear some of her own custom work. Crafting an entire presentable wardrobe in a modern style she is hardly acquainted with yet is going to be arduous. It is a good thing she doesn’t need regular sleep because there’s no way she’ll be getting any for a long time. The only reason she was able to produce a line for the runway on such short notice was her collection of old notebooks filled with workable designs. Those only needed tweaking to fit the theme. For everything else, it will be a lengthier process.

That is especially true the next task: her business. Her company has only just been legitimatized and her studio is still being staffed. _Adrien’s coming_ today _, and I still don’t have everything ready_ , she laments. It comforts her to think that the hefty sum she’s dangled in front of the model will be enough to keep him on board, no matter what he thinks of her enterprise. Deep down she recognizes this isn’t true—even if Adrien is so superficial to only consider money, adding even a sizable salary to his significant wealth is unlikely to sway him. Regardless, Marinette is fortunate she has enough wealth to employ so many talented people. Her investments have aged well, endowing her with a surplus of funds. The only investment that hasn’t aged so well is her personal real estate.

Her home has a good foundation. She spared no expense in its construction a century ago. Each update has matched and improved its standard of excellence. The copper pipes and foundation have held up well. However, the roofing has not. The wiring is outdated and the appliances obsolete. It will take a significant amount of remodeling to put her estate back up to snuff. The addition she is most keen on acquiring swiftly is fiber optic cables for high-speed internet access. Nino assured her it would be the best option for conducting Alya’s spirit reliably. The only problem is that it will take weeks to install. Marinette is champing at the bit to get everything in place for her dear friend’s return, which is why she’s continuing with the summoning tonight at Nino’s.

_First things first_ , she directs herself. _Get ready for work_. Her hair is woven into a professional bun. Keeping it simple, she pulls on a pencil skirt, blazer, and white blouse. Her cloth mask is tucked into her purse. She’s about to grab her keys from the kitchen counter when the smell hits her. A mix of garbage and rot, she traces the scent to half-eaten raccoon a just outside the sliding doors. This “gift” on the doorstep, and long, deep scratch marks on the glass confirm she’d gotten another visit from Chat. She’d been out last night, must have missed him. _Bad kitty_. _I don’t like dead raccoon any more than deer._ If he insists on making a pattern of “hunting” for her, the least he could do is leave something more appetizing. _I can’t exactly tell him to bring me blood, though._ The thought of him leaving a bleeding human on her doorstep is chilling. _No, he can’t know what I really eat. Not until his behavior stabilizes_.

The shapeshifter is a conundrum to her. While she knew it is possible for the species to appear as a hybrid, she’d never seen it happen. Why would one choose to appear that way? The goal of most modern shapechangers is to blend in, taking the full form of their beast and hunting only in protected areas where humans wouldn’t bother them. Unless…he isn’t choosing to appear that way. Chat’s actions are erratic and disjointed for a shapeshifter his age. There must be something wrong…some magic interfering with his transformations, making him unbalanced. _Is that why he needs my help?_

If she’s right, then he truly is in urgent need. The nature of the shapechanger is best compared to the mythical centaur—both man and animal, but with the human at the helm. They control their dual parts in harmony. Chat is more comparable to a man riding an unbroken horse. He can try to steer his inner feline, keep it in check, but at any moment he could be thrown out of the saddle entirely. If that were to happen, it would be dangerous to himself and those around him. Marinette resolves to ask Nino about what sort of magic could cause such symptoms. She adds that, and “clean up dead raccoon off porch” to her to-do list before gathering her things and leaving for her atelier.

The pale light of dawn streams through the ceiling to floor windows of her workspace. It is quiet, almost eerie, here alone. It’s hours before her receptionist or tailors are scheduled to arrive, leaving Marinette in peace to brainstorm. _The goal is to capture Adrien Agreste_. His essence needs to be encapsulated and enhanced by her designs. Equally important, his attention needs to be captured by her work for him to remain. With that in mind, she begins drawing. Her office fills with sketches and concept art as the lobbies and neighboring offices fill with people.

She smells Adrien arriving before she sees him. His aroma brings to mind fluffy clouds on a summer’s day, downy, white feathers, and an innocence that makes Marinette’s mouth water. The legends about virgins’ blood are—unfortunately for the designer—are all too true. On their first meeting the pungency of the camembert he’d been snacking on masked his own scent, delaying her exposure to it. She would have spent the remainder of the party with him, or at least finished the dance, if she hadn’t needed run off to compose herself. The temptation it poses is no small thing, even for a veteran vampire like her. Despite this, the bluenette refuses to give up on the blonde. Marinette is many things, but she’s not a quitter.

Breathing shallowly, she rises to greet the model, “Right on time. Welcome to my studio, Adrien,” She smiles beneath her mask, hoping it reaches her eyes. Gesturing to the sketches splayed about the desk, walls, and even littered on the cedar floors, she inquires, “What do you think?”

“To be honest, I don’t know much about fashion,” he admits. “I don’t have an eye for it.”

Unsatisfied with his answer, she prompts, “Beauty doesn’t need expertise to be recognized. It’s universal. Like all art, fashion is a shared human experience.” Marinette shuffles through the pages of her notebook, settling on a draft of a feathered bowler hat. “It must be overwhelming seeing so many designs at once. Just tell me what you think about this one. I’m aware derbies are out of fashion…but on you, it’ll be absolutely debonair.”

“I’m actually allergic to feathers…” Adrien scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “But the design is amazing. You’re very talented. It’s just—I’m surprised you’re letting me see all of this. Aren’t you worried I’ll steal your ideas for the Agreste brand?”

“You could, but you won’t,” she states with self-assurance. “I don’t know you particularly well—yet you don’t seem like the kind that would stoop to such things. Neither does Gabriel Agreste seem like the sort who’d accept plagiarized work—or anything less than his version of perfection.”

“You’re right. On both counts.” Their conversation is paused as they take a moment to assess one another. Adrien’s emerald eyes are faintly troubled, as if there’s more he’d like to say. Like the Mona Lisa’s inscrutable expression, his faint smile hints at myriad emotions. Her eyes linger on his mouth, wondering…

Aware of her dwindling self-control, Marinette gets to the point, “I wouldn’t have hired you if I doubted you. You should know you’re more than a pretty face to me—I’d like your notes on each of these drafts. Feel free to write directly on the pages. In the meantime, I’ll contact one of my tailors about taking your measurements. Toodles!” she dismisses herself, leaving Adrien alone in her office. Immediately after stepping out, she takes a deep breath, clearing her palate. _Toodles? Did I seriously say that to him? I must sound like his grandma._ It will be tricky interacting with her muse for only five-minute intervals. It’s easy to make excuses when she’s in such a busy position, but that will get old quickly.

Rubbing her forehead, she sighs and moves on. The rest of the day runs smoothly. A significant portion of it is tangled up in addressing formalities, writing up terms, and so-on for the blonde’s employment. She calls it a day around sunset. The instant she sets foot outside the office she only has one subject on her mind—Alya. _Tonight’s the night_. When she arrives at his flat, Nino’s already set up everything they need for the cyber-séance. The brunet technomancer is munching on one of her homemade cookies as he boots up the program.

“Dude seriously, what’s in these? They’re delicious!” he exclaims between bites.

“Ancient Chinese secret, Nino. I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” she quips, only half joking. “Status report?”

“I’ve made a few tweaks to the program, so it shouldn’t draw on my mana so intensely. This time it’ll work. Are you ready?”

“It’d better. I’ve been ready since the day I lost her. Let’s do this,” Marinette braces herself all the same, preparing for the possibility her best friend’s spirit will unleash fury on her. Nino sits cross-legged in the summoning circle. His palms crackle with energy that spreads from his hands like green fire into the wires, cables, and screens.

“Spiritus, illuc concurrite ad nos huc. Hoc erit ligatum in nexu et potestate in domum suam,” The room chills, the air crackles with power. Marinette raises her eyebrows at the sorcerer’s rusty Latin. It is a rough incantation, but it should do the job. “Iungere amicum tuum. Fatum implere tua. Rubrum capillos, specula, fortis meam. Vocamus super te: Alya Cesaire!” All the light in the room is extinguished, as sudden as a candle’s flame doused by water. The projector flickers to life—displaying the outline of young woman on the wall. The blurriness sharpens to a clear image of Alya, outfitted in the same flapper dress she died in. Picture becomes video as the redhead’s eyes widen, looking about frantically. Her mouth moves but no sound escapes.

“Damn it, I forgot to turn up the speakers! I’ll fix it,” Nino scrambles in the dark to find the remote for his house’s surround sound system. While he rummages, Alya tentatively stretches her hand outwards. As she does so, her arm appears three-dimensional, as if she’s reaching through a portal. Uncertainly, the rest of her body follows her arm in stepping out of the projection. Soon, she is entirely separate from the wall, a hologram of her past self, glowing and translucent. Nino finds the remote and turns up the volume, allowing them to hear what the spirit is saying.

“W-Where am I? What happened? Who are—Marinette?” The old friend’s eyes meet, and the bluenette rushes forward to give Alya a hug. Her arms pass right through the spirit.

“I’m so so sorry Alya. You…you died. About a hundred years ago. I want to apologize—you were right. I should have turned you. If I’d had made you a vampire like you’d asked you’d have been safe, none of this would have happened to you. I’m so sorry,” she sobs.

“I…died. I remember it now. My unfinished business…I want to tell you that I don’t blame you, Marinette. You did what you thought was right. You didn’t kill me—those thugs did. I died trying to do what I loved—I don’t have any regrets. I forgive you.” Tears stream down Marinette’s cheeks. Alya cups an insubstantial hand over her friend’s face.

“Oh, Alya,” The two share an embrace. Eventually, Marinette’s tears stop flowing and her friend smiles warmly at her. _This is goodbye_ , they think. It’s Alya’s time to rest. However, minutes pass and Alya is still here, instead of fading into nothingness.

“What’s going on? I thought that was it! Not that I’m upset, it’s just…”

“Maybe you have _more_ unfinished business?” Nino offers, piping up for the first time during the girls’ heartful reunion. Alya turns to him, quirking her head like she’s only just now noticing him.

“And who are you, the expert or something?” she jibes. “I lived a good life, surrounded by wonderful family and friends. My killers are long gone, and I’ve told my friend she shouldn’t blame herself. What else could I need to do?” He shrugs.

Marinette jumps in, reassuring, “We don’t know, but you have plenty of time to figure it out! I’m getting Wi-Fi in my house, so in a few weeks we’ll summon you again and—”

“Woah, hold it girl. I don’t know what this Wi-Fi thing is but there’s no way I’m going back. I can’t remember anything after I died…it’s terrifying! If you sent me back now it’d be like killing me again.” The bluenette is torn, moved by the Alya’s experience, but…

“If I don’t send you back you’ll still be tied to Nino’s Wi-Fi. You’ll only be able to haunt his flat and just outside it. Wouldn’t you prefer to stay with me?”

“I’m _not_ going back. It would be cool, staying with you, but…you’ll be able to visit me here, what’s the problem? I’ll just be roommates with this ‘Nino’ here. How does that sound, handsome?” Alya winks at him slyly. He flushes indiscernibly, looking away.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” Marinette chuckles in disbelief and shakes her head. “Alright. If this is what you choose, I support you. I’ll visit you a minimum of four times a week. Nino, you’ll be sending me updates twice a day. Capiche?”

“Hah! Alright, _mother_.”

“Nino?”

“I can do that,” he pledges.

“Enough worrying! We’ve got lots of catching up to do, girl. Tell me everything!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Alya is a ghost…connected to the Wi-Fi…Lady Wi-Fi…you see what I did there? I’m sorta proud of it. Next up we’re going to have Hawkmoth be an actual moth riding a Hawk into battle. Just kidding. Or am I? :0  
> For those curious and too lazy to use google translate like I did, the Latin incantation Nino uses is: “Spirit, come here to us here. This will be tied into the power connection at home. Join your friend. Complete your own destiny. Red hair, glasses, a strong soul. We call on you, Alya Cesaire!” It’s pretty bad.  
> “Radiant, carefree, dreamy, Adrien, the fragrance.” Marinette is all over that. In this story, even though designer Ladybug is the one who wears a mask, she’ll be more like Marinette in the show, sort of nervous around Adrien. Maskless Marinette will be more like Ladybug to Chat. Sorta confusing, but that’s how it is.


	4. A Gift

Adrien breathes a sigh of relief as he places the last moving box in his new home. With his bigger paycheck comes a bigger house. At least, that’s how he spins it to Nino, instead of admitting he was evicted for excess property damage. The scratch marks in the drywall and expensive wooden floors had made his landlord’s face turn purple. _He was not happy,_ Adrien remembers, wincing, _and he had a lot of unanswerable questions_. With his new residence, there will be no landlord to grapple with—he’s the sole owner.

The house sold for much less than market value. Many would-be buyers were scared off by the “unconventional” manor next door. The overgrown yard of Marinette’s mansion, combined with rumors of it being haunted in its near-abandoned state over the years, ruined the area’s image of a safe, white-picket fence neighborhood. Far from being a deterrent to Adrien, he was enthralled to learn of housing so close to her. _For purely practical reasons_ , he assures himself. Now, any unexpected transformations will be easily dealt with. He won’t have to worry about locking himself up—it will be as simple as jumping a fence onto her property. It will also be less of a commute to his new work. It’d only been a week since he’d started, but things were looking good. There were many utilitarian reasons for picking this house. Being able to meet Marinette and talk to her as a completely normal, human neighbor is just a side benefit.

“Nino, what are you supposed to give your new neighbors when you introduce yourself?” Flowers are too amorous, but a traditional gift of wine or cookies would likely go uneaten by the picky predator. Adrien wants his “first” impression to be positive.

“Nothing, dude. They’re supposed to give _you_ stuff—it’s called a house-warming present. I don’t know why you want to do this. You didn’t meet your previous neighbors. Why would you be so insistent this time, when even your real estate agent thinks that manor is creeps-ville?” Nino unpacks one of the kitchen boxes, looking for a snack.

“I’m…turning over a new leaf. New job, new me. I’m branching out,” the blonde notices his friend’s search, and advises, “There’s no food in there. I’m grocery shopping later. Don’t you have food at home?” Nino groans dramatically.

“I can’t go home. My new roommate is driving me _crazy_. Questions every second of every day—she’s…uh, foreign, so there’s a lot she doesn’t know about here. It’s totally distracting. And she never sleeps!”

“Why’s she asking _you_ about everything? Hasn’t she heard of google?”

“Dude,” Nino perks up, “You’re a genius. I’ve got to go tell her.” He grabs his keys and runs off, clapping Adrien on the shoulder on his way out.

“…Bye?” Adrien shrugs. _Does she not know about search engines? Must be from a pretty isolated place._ With his friend gone and all his belongings out of the moving van, he decides it’s a good of time as any to run errands.

His cart fills with groceries, but he still hasn’t figured out what he should bring Marinette. It can’t be too cheap or too pricey. It somehow needs to say: Thanks for not killing crazy-cat me, can we be friends? Please? He’s about to give up when he passes the meat aisle. _Maybe she only likes_ cooked _meats. That would explain why she rejected the deer._ The mini-epiphany motivates him to load his cart with rotisserie chicken and a few steaks. It’s only once he’s unloading the bags into his fridge when he realizes how poorly thought through this is. _Nobody brings someone a_ whole chicken _to introduce themselves. She’ll think I’m crazy. That’s it—I’m not bringing anything._

Empty-handed, Adrien knocks on the oak door of the manor. _For all the time I’ve spent here, I’ve never been inside._ A part of him is eager to discover what its interior has to say about its occupant. Will it be crypt-like and menacing? Or warm and homey? His foot taps the porch as he waits. _It’s the weekend…maybe she isn’t home?_ The sound of stairs creaking and footsteps getting closer abolish that worry. Several locks are unlatched, and Marinette pulls open the door.

“Hello! I’m Adrien. I just moved in next door. It’s nice to meet you,” he holds out his hand and she shakes it gingerly, eyes wide.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Marinette,” she looks a bit unsure of herself for an instant before inviting him in. “Welcome to my home.” They step into lobby, its most prominent feature the broad staircase leading to the second story. A peek of the upper level can be seen behind its marble banister. “Would you like some refreshments?”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It’s no trouble,” she assures, leading him into the open kitchen and living area. “All I have is ice water, will that be alright?”

“Of course.” Adrien takes a seat on a barstool by the kitchen counter. While Marinette prepares the drinks, he takes in his surroundings. The furnishings are an odd combination of antiques, eccentric knick-knacks, and state of the art appliances. A brand new 100-inch plasma screen hangs on the wall next to a shelf with a lava lamp and an ornate phonograph that looks older than his grandmother. “How long have you lived here?”

“The answer to that is sort of complicated,” she hands him his glass, leaning against the counter across from him. “I grew up here—this property has been in my family for a long time—but I only recently moved back in. There’s been lots of remodeling to do. I’m sure you can understand the struggle since you’ve become the owner of an older home yourself. What made you move in?”

“I got tired of apartment life…and my new place is closer to work.” For some reason this makes Marinette smile.

“Very practical. You’re planning on staying on this job for a while, then?”

“I think so. It’s a great opportunity, and my coworkers are all wonderful,” Marinette takes a sip of water, hiding her mouth behind the glass. “Except…my boss doesn’t seem to like me very much. She’s friendly with everyone else, but kind of avoids me.” A crack is all the warning he has before her tight grip on the glass shatters it, spilling water and sharps onto the tile.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry! I’m such a klutz!”

“Let me help clean up,” Adrien offers, rising out of his seat.

“No, no, it’s alright. I won’t keep you here any longer. I’m expecting company soon, but I’d love to finish our conversation later.” He checks his watch and sees it’s nearly sunset. _I’m almost definitely going to transform tonight. It’s been too long since my last one._

“I should go,” he agrees. Walking with her to entrance, something clicks in his brain. _Could Chat be the company she’s expecting?_ Odd as it is, that’s she’s brushing him of for…himself, it warms his heart.

“I’ll see you around,” Marinette waves goodbye from her doorstep. _Yes, you will_. _And sooner than you think._ Adrien takes the short walk home, reflecting on their encounter. _Seeing her house didn’t tell me much. She didn’t tell me much either._   It makes sense that she wouldn’t give away any of the information he needs to someone she just met, but it still irks him. _Maybe I need another look at the house. As Chat, this time. Though I have a hunch convincing her to let me inside will be difficult. Especially after I clawed her door._

He sifts through his bagged wardrobe, pulling out his old hoodie and gym shorts. They look a bit worse for wear, with snags from branches and a few bloodstains that didn’t wash out. He puts them on anyway, having no better alternative.

The change arrives just as the sun dips below the horizon. Chat undergoes a perfunctory sweep of his new abode. He pays extra attention to the empty boxes. When he gets bored of them, he climbs the fence, landing with a _thump_ in the damp grass of Marinette’s backyard.

His keen ears pick up the sound of dozens of little critters scurrying away at his approach. His reputation precedes him. Most animals who’ve lived in the city learn to have no fear of humans, but these ones have gathered he’s something different, something more. The recognition inspires a feral, fanged grin on his visage. The urge to give them chase springs up naturally within him, but he quells it with the knowledge that he has a mission. _I’ll climb the tree next to her window and pry it open. Then I’ll have a chance to enter quietly without her suspecting._

The plan never comes to fruition, however, as when he stalks towards the manor, he spies Marinette leaning against the newly repaired banister eyes following him easily through the shadows. One hand is behind her back, the other gestures him to come forward. Chat pads towards her slowly, taking his time in the approach so as not to provoke her.

“I have something for you. Something that will help,” she announces. She extends her hand towards him. Hanging from it, a black, leather collar with a golden bell. It chimes lightly as it dangles from her grip.

Of all the things for her to offer…a collar? Such a thing has myriad meanings to a cat like him. It is a symbol of domesticity. A mark of ownership and protection. Does she mean to help by staking a claim on him? To tame him, turn him into a pet? His hackles raise. A part of him is gratified that the beautiful predator would harbor any intention to possess him. Another is on alert for malintent.

Marinette notices his twitching tail and flattened ears and hastily clarifies, “Ah—it’s not what you think! I had it enchanted. It’s the only thing I could think to have you wear that could remain comfortable while shapeshifting. It’s meant to give you more control over your transformations.”

Chat tentatively investigates the object, sniffing the band and batting at the bell. It smells like her, with the added musk of oiled leather and something familiar that he can’t quite put his claw on. It looks harmless, but he asks anyway, “How do I know this isn’t a trap?”

“You’ll just have to trust me,” she answers matter-of-factly. Her bluebell eyes are cool and calm. Behind the aura of soothing she wears, Chat detects a hint of tension. Warmth. Concern for him, his well-being. _She’s not going to hurt me._ He nods and shows her the back of his neck. Gingerly, she drapes the collar over his neck, fastening it loose enough that it doesn’t chafe or strangle but so that it maintains contact with his skin.

It tingles with latent energy. For a few moments he can feel it working, jumbling his insides. Confusion makes way to clarity as he senses something unknown within him. A strange presence that was previously invisible. It thrums with power. The source of his magic, swirling in his core. A portion of it remains blocked to him, obstructed by a foreign force. Experimentally, he nudges it, prodding with his mind.

It reacts violently, and Chat Noir is plunged into darkness. He thrashes against the walls closing in on him. It is warm and stifling, and his struggling only tangles him further. The claustrophia doesn’t last long as he is lifted back into the light.

His vision is overwhelmed with Marinette towering in front of him. _Really towering_. He looks down at himself, suspended in her arms. _I’m… a cat. An actual housecat._ _Is this what the collar was_ supposed _to do?!_ He doesn’t know how to process this, letting out a discontented, “ _Mrrrrrow_!”

“Aww, what a handsome kitty you are!” she beams at him, smiling ear to ear. “Look at your little toes…and your little whiskers…” Chat feels a petulant hiss building in his throat. Marinette must feel it too, because her tone turns reproachful, “Oh, come on now. This isn’t so bad. Now you don’t have to hide from everyone. You’re only a danger to mice and leather furniture. Plus, you get ear scratches.”

To illustrate her point, she rubs the base of Chat’s ear, pulling him towards her chest so that his head rests on her shoulder. Her other hand strokes his back.

_Why_ couldn’t _I get ear scratches before?_ He wonders peevishly before relaxing into the affection. He’s unused to the warmth of a complete coat of fur and the cool touch of her skin lulls him into a purr.

Marinette nudges his pile of clothes on the floor with her toe and scoffs, “These are awful. Next time I’m making something that doesn’t smother you, or reek of deer. But first let’s get you something to eat.”

Chat swivels in the woman’s grip, raising his nose into the air to orient himself. His initial impression of the house doesn’t change much with his additional olfactory abilities. There is a lingering musk of sawdust in the entryway. _There’s been work done on the home recently._ Chat Noir already knew as much. He exhales and takes a deeper whiff, probing the air for the subtler. He detects something faint, something challenging to distinguish from Marinette’s aroma. There’s that same otherworldly baseline, but instead of sandalwood, it is marked by a chemical-y tang not unlike the inside of a salon. It is softened by the unique odor of guitar string oil.

_She’s not alone here. There are more of our kind._ The revelation unsettles him. It would be simpler and better if him and Marinette were the only ones at the apex of Paris. Chat’s round, slitted eyes stare up at the woman holding him. _Does she have a pack? A pride, a clowder? Maybe even…a mate?_ Chat didn’t like this at all. If there were others, they could disapprove of him, try to separate them. This is a thread he must investigate further. He tenses and prepares to jump to the floor.

Fate conspires against him, however, as his claws snag in Marinette’s blouse as he tries to wriggle from her grip. A gentle hand detangles him and sits him dutifully on the kitchen counter. “Stay here while I get you something to eat,” she instructs, wagging a finger at him for emphasis. He swats at it. She distracts him for an embarrassing length of time by dangling the digits to and fro, while he friskily tries to catch them.

When she turns away to rummage through her pantry, he darts away to continue exploring. Halfway to stairs he hears her tut and rush towards him. “No troublemaking for you, kitty. You’re staying where I can see you.” Chat is returned to the counter and a bowl of extraordinarily pungent tuna is slid in front of him.

“ _Miaaou_ ,” he vocalizes. He can only hope his skepticism is visible on his furry face.

“Go on. You’ll like it,” she encourages, “Besides, this is all I’ve got for you to eat, at the moment. No need to pussyfoot.” She giggles at her wordplay and looks far too pleased with it. Chat huffs and leans down towards the food. With the pungency of the tuna saturating the air, he couldn’t pick up any subtler scents even if he tried. Reluctantly, he gives the treat a lick. _Salty_. _Not anywhere near fresh. It is…adequate._ Marinette seems to be getting more joy out of him eating than he is. Her eyes are nurturing as she leans on her elbow, contentedly watching him scarf it down.

Chat licks his snout and sits up when finished, looking at the raven-haired predator expectantly. She seems intent on monopolizing his activities. The lack of freedom grated on him less than he’d have expected. It didn’t hurt his ego, either. Instead, her proclivity to pamper him pleased him, make him feel cared for. He could get used to it.

“Now you’ve eaten, I bet you’re ready for a catnap.”

Chat Noir is, indeed, ready to relax. Adrien would’ve been getting ready for bed at this time of night. He nods, and Marinette is spurred on.

“Neato,” she grins, “that means it’s cuddle time!” She leads them to the living room where she plops onto the couch, tapping the spot next to her. “Have you ever seen the musical _Cats_? No? How unsophisticated of you, kitty. Now’s your chance.” Marinette seizes the remote and sets up the recording.

Meanwhile, the black cat is pinned to his spot on the counter. For him to take a nap is one thing. For both of them to sleep at the same time, in the same area? That is a level of trust he hadn’t dreamed of being extended so quickly. _Is it because I’ve become small and weak?_ His current size made it difficult to imagine being perceived as any sort of threat. Nevertheless, he would take advantage of this acceptance and followed her to the couch.

The arm of the sofa made for his perch as the musical began. While not the most comfortable part of the couch, he likes the view. It didn’t take long for Marinette to have something to say about his behavior. “What are you being a sourpuss for? Don’t you want pets? C’mere,”

Chat did want pets. After a moment of hesitation, he pads over to her lap. Her wonderful hands greet him as he circles her lap. Before settling into a comfy spot, he gets an inexplicable urge to head-butt her. Gently. More of a nuzzle, really. Starting with her hands, he rubs his forehead against her palm. Once satisfied there, he moves to her neck and face.

“Ahahah, that tickles! You’re missing the musical, Chaton,” she scolds playfully. Once his scent is plentifully intertwined with hers, he ceases bunting and curls up in her lap, letting the dramatic vibrato of a broadway actress’s song wash over him. They relax and fall into a pattern of ear scratches and purring. Soon, Chat falls into a blissful sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIL a group of cats is called a clowder


	5. Well-Suited

When a vampire sleeps, it is a long and restorative affair. More akin to a hibernation than a doze. It follows severe injury, boredom, or starvation.

What Marinette is experiencing now, a slumbering cat warming her lap and a plush cushion beneath her head, is a sort of meditative stupor. Her mind is languid, and her eyelids drooped closed. Her senses, though unalert, are still processing.

One such thing being processed is the weight of Chat Noir on her legs. It is a comfortable, anchoring presence. She shifts her position slightly, hoping not to wake the cozy shapeshifter. It takes more effort than she’d expected to move while pinned under the small cat’s body, but no matter. It must be her lethargy. She sighs and runs her fingers through black fur.

The strands are long, getting tousled in Marinette’s deft fingers. _Is Chat a long-haired cat? I didn’t notice that before. How absent-minded of me._ Her hands move to his ears, with a softness and fur length that has remained consistent. The size, seems awfully disproportional…

Marinette blinks open her eyes. She gasps, jolting slightly at the sight that greets her.

It was hair, soft, blonde hair that she’d been stroking. The weight on her lap was no longer a young cat, but the head of a still dozing cat boy, back to his hybrid form. _When did this happen? I thought the collar was working!_

She moved the hair at the nape of his neck aside to check if it stayed in place. The collar remained, starkly contrasting against tanned skin. Skin…lots of skin… _naked_ skin.

Oh.

_Oh_.

Scurrying away, Marinette backs against the other end of the couch letting Chat’s head fall off her lap. _This is my fault! I let myself forget what he was. It’s just too easy to forget there’s a man under those innocent kitty eyes._ Chat Noir rouses at the commotion, yawning widely.

“Why’d you move? I was comfy,” he protests, stretching his long, toned arms forward then relaxing. _It seems he’s forgotten what he is, too. He doesn’t seem perturbed by this in the least. Has he even noticed transforming?!_

“Chat…” she begins, trying to look at him but inevitably blushing and staring at the wall. “You’re not currently…decent.”

“I think I’m decent enough,” the blonde nonchalantly replies, reaching for her leg and rubbing his cheek against it. _Shameless cat!_

“Not that kind of decent! I mean—I mean you’re not wearing anything,” she stumbles out, struggling not to overreact.

“I wasn’t wearing anything before. You didn’t seem to mind then.”

Marinette is about to launch a thorough explanation of fur coverage, anatomy, and propriety when Chat rises halfway on his forearms, tail swirling above him. There’s a spark of realization in his eyes. His brows are in a confrontational furrow. Something daunting in his posture silences her. “You’re afraid of me,” he accuses, “Now that I’m not a little ten-pound weakling you don’t trust me near you.”

_Afraid of him? How ridiculous. I’ve already bested him in a fight. Why would he think—oh._ Her nervousness around his nudity could’ve easily been misinterpreted as fear. Marinette bites her lip as she ponders on how to explain her feelings without embarrassing herself. “ _It’s simple Chat, I’m not afraid of you because you’ll hurt me, I’m acting strange because seeing your strong shoulders and six-pack makes me think about—” ugh, no! Maybe… “You see, when a man and a woman love each other very much—” worse, much worse!_

While Marinette struggles to string an argument together, the blonde shifts his position, now hovering above her on hands and knees. His expression softens and abruptly he collapses on top of her in a too warm hug. She tenses and shuts her eyes to give him some privacy. “You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he murmurs into the crook of her neck, “We’re partners. We help, not hurt, each other.” As if emphasizing his point, his sandpaper tongue laps the sensitive skin beneath her jaw. Her face turns a deep red.

Frazzled, the vampire remains stunned in his hold. She tries not to think about what their position might look like to someone just walking in. Her eyes unwittingly follow the hard lines of his torso to— _Get it together, Marinette. Get your mind out of the gutter._ Her gaze leaps back up to meet his acid green eyes.

His words struck her harder than she’d expected. _He is rather passionate, considering we’ve only been acquainted so short a time._ Before judging him too harshly she tries to place herself in his position. Only a couple decades old, and disconnected from the magical community, seemingly alone, having to wander Paris as a monster…only for someone who seems to know what’s going on to take him in. She relaxes infinitesimally. _I would feel strongly for that person as well. We are partners. Allies, at least for now._ She gives him a clumsy pat on the back, before clearing her throat and pushing him off.

Strutting towards the doorway, back to Chat Noir, Marinette turns her attention to practical matters, “You need clothes. Not just for the sake of decency. It’s getting colder outside, and you don’t have enough fur to keep you warm. It could also act as a layer of protection, armor so that you don’t get as scratched up running amok in my yard. Lastly, the collar doesn’t seem to be cutting it. With a bit of luck, an enchantment on the next outfit will do the job.”

Chat Noir is collecting himself off the floor when Marinette tosses a large wool blanket on him. “Cover yourself with this in the meantime. I'm going to gather a few things, stay here,” she instructs, bustling up the stairs to her sewing room without waiting for a reply.

The room is filled with shelves stuffed to the brim with fabric. In the center is a large worktable, cluttered with sketching paper, scissors, and other colorful sewing implements. Marinette grabs a measuring tape and peruses the rows of fabric for something to suit her purposes. It needs to be something that blends in, keeps him out of sight. Since he seems to hang around at night, black is an obvious choice. _Now for material. Denim is sturdy, but stiff. Plus, as a full bodysuit, that would look silly._ Her hand run over the textiles until it comes to rest on a bolt of leather. _Flexible, durable, yes, this will do._

As the bolt slides from its spot on the shelf, Marinette spies a colorless moth scurrying over the dark colored fabrics. Extending a hand towards, she lets it crawl on her hand as she addresses it, “How did you get in here, little guy?” Its antennae swivel.

“You’re here to munch on my fabric, aren’t you? I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” She escorts it to the window and prepares to toss it out, when its long proboscis digs into her palm, breaking the skin. “Ouch! What was that for?” she exclaims, smacking it off her. It falls to the ground, flailing its white wings wildly. Marinette considers herself kind to most creatures, big and small, but this one gives her a bad feeling. There’s an unusual purple sheen to its multifaceted eyes. She picks it up by its wings and impulsively tears it in half, tossing it in the waste bin.

Deciding she’s left Chat alone for long enough, she bundles the materials in her arms and returns to the living room. True to her instruction, the cat boy is burrowed in the blanket right where she left him. The materials are spread on the coffee table. Marinette prepares to start the project when the blonde pokes his head out of the blanket, hair mussed and staticky. He asks thoughtfully, “Why am I like this? Did someone…did someone curse me?”

She shakes her head. “Like with most magic, your abilities are genetic. One, if not both, of your parents must have been a shapeshifter. That’s why I was so surprised that you didn’t know the way things were. Most of the time shapeshifter children are taught from a young age what they are and how to control it.” Marinette notices Chat’s downtrodden expression, inquiring gently, “Is there some reason your parents couldn’t tell you?”

“My mother disappeared when I was young. It must have been her,” He stares at the floor, shaking his head in disbelief, “Is it possible my father didn’t know about it?”

“Possible, yes. Though…even when a shapeshifter knows how to control their powers, they still need to exercise their inner animal by transforming regularly. Your mother would have had to take great lengths to hide this. Regular excursions could be excused by business trips or visits to family, but these things tend to be treated suspiciously by spouses. Maybe your father assumed you wouldn’t get the gene. You could ask him about it.”

Chat grimaces. “If I told him anything about this, he’d send me to a mental institution.”

“I wouldn’t let him,” Marinette declares automatically. There is a moment of stillness between them as they cope with their surprise. The blonde lifts his head to search her, assessing her intent. Marinette stands straighter and bites her lip. _That’s too bold of a statement. Do I really mean it?_ Her heart aches. _There’s no way I could let a misguided shapeshifter be sent to the funny farm for trying to find the truth. Yes, I mean it._

Clearing her throat to break the tension, she seizes the tape measurer and takes a seat besides the bundled-up Chat Noir on the couch. “I’m going to take your measurements. Give me your arm.” He obeys straightaway.

Marinette tries to ignore the heat of his body next to hers as she works. How the couch cushion deflates under them, causing them to lean in closer. The room fills with the _flisk_ of the measuring tape sliding against itself and the scratches of her pencil taking down notes. She arms circumnavigate his waist with the tape, and her head nears his heart enough to hear it pounding restlessly. _Is he as nervous as I am?_ The designer scoffs at herself mentally. _I shouldn’t be nervous. I do this all the time, to plenty of attractive people. I should just be grateful he doesn’t smell as tantalizing as Adrien._

If Chat smelled anything like Adrien, few, if any, of the night’s activities would have been possible. Marinette inhales slowly while measuring the length of his spine. His musk is animalistic, earthy. Pine needles and wet earth. It doesn’t scream, ‘prey’, like Adrien’s does. Quite the opposite. However, there is something inviting about it. Her nose drifts unconsciously closer to the back of his neck. _Fresh, soothing, like tea_. Her lips are dangerously close to brushing his skin when Chat’s voice brings her back to reality.

“You’re not a shapeshifter, like me,” he announces. His tone is more experimental than accusatory.

Exhaling forcefully, Marinette continues her task, twisting the tape horizontally to determine the breadth of his shoulders. “No, I’m not.”

“…What are you?”

_The dreaded question._ Marinette knew he’d ask eventually. Her best bet is to answer without answering. Tell him more about the world while evading labels about her true nature. “I’m not entirely different from you. Shapeshifters and my kind—we share a common origin.”

His ears perk up attentively. “Really?”

“Yes. It’s actually quite the interesting story, if you’d care to hear it.”

Chat nods vigorously. _Success, he’s distracted._

“It happened thousands of years ago, in a small city. This town was governed by its most prominent, wealthy family. The family had a single daughter, a beautiful redhead named Tikki.

“While the poorer residents of the city resented the elite, they could not resent Tikki. She was too fair, too generous. She would sneak away from her estate to help the sick. It was this way that she met Plagg. Now, Plagg was something of a street rat. Lowborn, orphaned, making a living off mostly theft. But Tikki saw something in him. Or, she must’ve, because they fell desperately in love.

“They had to keep their love affair secret, lest Tikki’s family find out and send the boy away. The two enjoyed many stolen months together, taking long walks in the forest, sneaking out for midnight rendezvous. But, Plagg kept getting sicker. The food and medicine she gave him didn’t help.

“When it seemed like Plagg might die, they got desperate. They followed rumors leading to a local magician. They explained their dilemma, how they wanted their love to last forever. He listened to their tale of woe, and explained, ‘I am a necromancer. I only hold power over the dead. Take your lives with this dagger. Then, I can heal you, and raise you from the grave to live forever.’

“Plagg was skeptical of the magician’s offer. He tried to convince her to simply enjoy the time they had left, and not risk her life over him. However, Tikki would not be dissuaded. She took the opportunity the necromancer gave her and plunged the dagger into her heart. Left with little choice, Plagg followed suit.

“Their bodies were found by the authorities a few days later. Unaware of the two’s love, the rulers assumed Plagg kidnapped and murdered Tikki out of spite. He was buried in an unmarked grave on the outskirts of the city. Tikki was mourned by all as an innocent struck down in her youth. The entire public was invited to her funeral to pay respects.”

“So, the necromancer lied? They died for nothing?”

“Not exactly,” Marinette goes on, “On the next full moon, they did rise from their graves. But the necromancer left one thing out. This resurrection came with a cost. This cost wasn’t paid by the magician, or Tikki, or Plagg. It was paid by those who visited their graves.

“It was an awful curse, a dark energy implanted in them by the dagger. It siphoned away the lifeforce of each visitor, channeling it into them. When that full moon rose, so did Tikki. And every family member and neighbor who had come to her burial place to mourn her dropped dead. The essence of so many people coalesced in her, giving her their collective strength and lifespans.

“Plagg, on the other hand, had only one visitor to his grave—a stray cat. He came back from the grave, changed. His essence was no longer just human. None of this was apparent to him, at first. All he knew was that he was healthy again and needed to find Tikki.

“When Tikki awoke, she could feel the power running through her. The dark energy embedded by the dagger had flourished within her from being fed with dozens of life-forces. It affected her mind, her instincts. She was met with the reality of what she’d done as soon as she laid eyes on her nine-year-old cousin, pale and lifeless, collapsed over her headstone. She’d tried to go home only to see the rest of her family had met the same fate.

“It drove her mad. Revenge was the only thing on her mind as she tracked down the necromancer. He was in his cottage, reading, when she met him for the second time. He’d pleaded that he was only trying to help, didn’t mean for this to happen, but his cries fell on deaf ears. Tikki killed him.

“Once Plagg found her, covered in blood and thoughts singular on vengeance against all practitioners of dark magic, he realized that she wasn’t his true love anymore. That kind, tender-hearted woman was gone. And they went their separate ways, never to reunite.”

Marinette sighs. There were many generations of vampires in between her and Tikki, but the echoes of the First’s heartache lingers as if it were her own. “The story should be taken with a grain of salt,” she adds, “It happened a long time ago, and Master Fu loved to embellish.”

“Our ancestors were in love.” Chat states ponderingly, “And my kind was caused by a cat’s essence entwining with a human one.”

“Yes, and yes,” she confirms. “Eventually Plagg settled down with a witch, and her magic to his unique properties produced interesting results in their offspring. Not all shapeshifters’ animal is a cat. There is a lot of variety nowadays, though mammals are the most common.”

The rhythm of the tape measurer and pencil resumes between the space in their conversation. Marinette gazes thoughtfully at Chat. _I wonder if he looks anything like Plagg did._ She tries to picture the two originators staying together after their transformations. Once Tikki’s bloodlust abated, could they have found a middle ground? Would Plagg have stayed if he’d understood what The First had seen, what she’d been through? _If Chat knew what I am, would he react the same way as Plagg did?_

The vampire finds her own thoughtful expression mirrored on Chat. _We both have a lot to think about._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *has Marinette in the same room with naked Chat Noir*  
> *most of the chapter about lore*  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	6. Missing from Me

Cold, formal, and soulless as always, the Agreste manor is an unchanging monument to his aloof upbringing. Every step Adrien takes on the polished white granite takes him further into his past here. The silent, solitary dinners at a too-large dining table. Endless studying and robotic piano playing for no audience but a critical father. The high ceilings meant to inspire grandeur, only making the environment seem empty and Adrien…insignificant.

On a normal occasion he would resent any time spend in his old prison of a house. Not today. He’d specifically requested his monthly dinner with Gabriel Agreste to be at the family mansion. There were too many emotions running through his head that he couldn’t risk escaping. Adrien draws from his memories of this place, letting its detachment embrace him with its cold hands. He suppresses the uncharacteristic anger that’s overwhelmed him since learning of his hidden shapeshifter heritage—that either of his parents would keep something so vital secret, that he didn’t know something so central to his mother’s life, that they left him to find this life-shattering secret _by himself_. And even now Adrien couldn’t approach his father honestly.

Adrien takes a deep, calming breath through gritted teeth _. I am calm. I am the perfect, normal son. I simply have a few harmless questions for my father._ The sharp click of heels on marble alerts Adrien to Nathalie’s approach.

“Your father has some business matters to take care of. He will be with you in a moment,” she announces, leading him to the dining room.

_Of course. Father is always keeping me waiting. Nothing’s changed._ He thanks Nathalie and takes a seat in his usual chair on the long edge of the table. He faintly registers the sound of her retreating footsteps as he slumps in boredom. _At least now I have more time to think about what I’m going to say. I can’t afford to lose focus. Not like yesterday at work._

Adrien’s leans his head against the back of the chair, recollecting. _Yesterday_.

It was the first of Ladybug’s attempted “musing sessions” with him. What he’d assumed would be the majority of his everyday work was really the culmination of weeks of build-up. His everyday had included direct interactions with his boss, brainstorming, building rapport, but mostly he’d been whisked off to varying departments for what she liked to call “Breadth Assignments”.

One week it was decided he should know what it was like on the other side of the camera. A photographer had coached him on technique and one of his peers modelled for him, patiently putting up with his utter lack of experience. He’d been out of his comfort zone. It was one thing to receive direction from the photographer but quite another to be the one to produce that direction. Adrien was used to being the art, not the artist. He’d rolled his eyes internally each time he’d been told to “make love to the camera” or move his arm just a liiittle to the left, no, too far! Now, he understood.

It was making him a better model. _Ladybug_ was making him a better model. And to thank her for it, he’d made a mess of his first real task.

Ladybug had rented out the green house of a botanical garden for the “set”, bringing along her latest designs, variety of instruments, and _furniture_ of all things, for “props”. As skeptical as he was of her process the results, admittedly, were showstopping.

It was a collage of fashion and eclectic decor, an art show intermixed with the natural beauty of the garden’s plants. It could have been the venue for an exclusive, high-brow brunch but better, because they’d had it all to themselves. One corner of the garden caught his eye in particular: a vintage chaise adjacent to a grand piano, all framed by ferns.

“I chose this place specifically for the color. Emerald,” Ladybug had whispered to him after catching him staring, “just the right hue to match your eyes.”

Adrien didn’t think he’d ever get used to being talked to that way. Not that he was unused to compliments, rather, he suspected that it was the intensity of Ladybug’s manner that made him feel so much more…vulnerable. Like she could see right through him. Maybe it was an effect of covering most of her face except the eyes. Her blue-bell gaze became all the more hawk-like. Maybe that was why she wore the mask.

The musing session started out well enough. At her request, he’d try on various clothes she’d designed for him, sit among the flowers, and pose with the decor as Ladybug took photos and jotted down notes.

“Do you play?” she’d asked, gesturing to the piano they’d circled back to.

“Sort of,” Adrien answered humbly. He hadn’t played since he’d left home. She signaled for him to try. “What should I play?”

“Anything. Whatever feels right.”

He narrowed it down to his handful of memorized pieces, then decided one that he’d performed so many times he could do it in his sleep: Erik Satie’s Pieces Froides. His fingers danced over the keys, picking up the familiar, somber rhythm.

Ladybug took a seat on the adjacent chaise and pulled out her notebook to sketch him. Every few moments she’d pause to glance up at him.

As he fell into a mechanically perfect performance, Adrien’s mind wandered. _My own mother, a shapeshifter. If she hadn’t disappeared, I wonder if she’d have taught me about my transformations, how to control it. She was an excellent teacher._ His heart ached at all the meaningful experiences he’d missed in her absence. _In a different world we could have gone through this together. As a pack, a family._ His hands pound the notes of the melody with a resounding bitterness.

  _I can’t picture Mom as a cat like me. She must’ve been something beautiful, peaceful. A deer or a butterfly._ _Unless the animal doesn’t depend on personality… another thing to ask Marinette next time I see her._

His brow furrowed as he realized another possibility.

_My father…can he really be ignorant of all this? I can’t rule out the possibility that he’s the shapeshifter. Maybe he was out of control like I am. Maybe that’s why mom left. Maybe he lost control one day and killed her—_

_No! No, Father isn’t a murderer. I just…I just don’t know enough yet_. He unknowingly rushed the tempo of the piece as his mind ran in circles. The final crescendo of the song was approaching when a hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Wait,” Ladybug instructs. “You…understand the purpose of all this, right?”

Adrien nodded reluctantly, unsure of where she was going.

“The inspiration I’m drawing from you isn’t contingent on just a pretty face. It’s about all of you. Your _essence_. And right now, your essence is…cloudy. Unfocused. Haunted, even. Something akin to an unknowing widow waiting for her husband to get back from war. It’s not a problem, per se, but…is that what you want to project? Who you want to be? If it is, we can work with that. I could embrace it, accentuate it. If not, I’d like to continue working when all of this,” she gestured to his head, and points a nail over his heart, “Is figured out.”

“I understand,” Adrien gulped and nodded. He stood briskly and began walking away partly out of embarrassment.

“Adrien?” Ladybug called to him before he got too far. “I know I’m your boss, so I might not be your first choice but…” she took a breath and furrowed her eyebrows, “I’m here. If you need to talk to anyone.”

“Thank you,” he replied with sincerity, letting his word hang in the air for a moment and completed his retreat.

Once in his car, he huffed and shook his head. He was frustrated at himself for not keeping his emotions in check and at Ladybug for being able to see through his act. Not only seeing through his act but _mentioning_ it. Everyday thousands of people notice thousands of other people suffering and do nothing. Couldn’t she have followed suit? People put up walls for a reason.

Adrien was so used to having the privilege of privacy to sort through his messes. God knows his father would never put in the effort to find out his son’s feelings behind the façade. Nino noticed his friend’s woes but politely gave him space. Ladybug pretended like the walls never existed in the first place. Adrien felt exposed. Yet with that exposure he felt a sense of validation. Validation from being seen and remarked about.

Though loathe to admit it, it was a topic he’d fantasized about frequently growing up. A beautiful stranger waltzing into his life to rip off his mask and save him from his inner isolation. It didn’t feel as he’d imagined. Nothing had been solved. Only laid bare.

He lets his temple rest against his hand. At least he has one advantage going into this fight: his father won’t have Ladybug’s near supernatural ability to see through a person’s walls. Even if he did Adrien doubted the man would deign to use that ability on his lowly, powerless son. Adrien lifts his head, jaw setting. Yes, he had that advantage. His father would always underestimate him. Try to put him on a shelf. That arrogance would make Adrien’s task easy.

The anxiety has steeled into cool resolve by the time Gabriel Agreste joins him in the dining room, taking a seat at the head of the long table. Gabriel’s posture is stiff and regal, his silver hair immaculate. Adrien finds his own back straightening automatically in his father’s presence. He clears his throat.

“Good evening, father,” he greets, keeping any malice at being kept waiting out of his expression.

“Son,” Gabriel states simply with an accompanying nod. “Gaspard, bring out the first course.”

Their chef and his staff fill the table with entrees and fresh bread. Once they leave, Adrien and his father begin eating in tenuous silence. It is Gabriel who initiates conversation, asking after his new home.

“I trust it suits your needs adequately.”

“Yes, father. It is in good condition.” Adrien pauses, taking another bite. “The neighborhood is welcoming as well. Most of my neighbors have stopped by with gifts and well-wishes.”

“Hm. I would be skeptical of their intentions. They know who you are. They bring you wine and cookies to get into your good graces, you’ll see how quickly they’ll ask something of you in return. Innocent, at first. An autograph or a photo. But it all comes down to money with these people.”

Adrien has to shovel food in his mouth to keep from calling his father a hypocrite.

Instead, he tempers his reaction, saying only, “I’ll be careful.”

The conversation continues into the main course, eventually steering towards his work. His father is stalwartly cynical towards it and fills the time with unsolicited advice on maintaining his reputation and professional development.

As dessert has just been served, Adrien sees his window of opportunity open. Now’s his chance.

“What was Mother’s favorite color?” he blurts.

Gabriel drops his utensils and meets his eyes in shock. “Where is this coming from?”

“She’s my mom, she created me, and…I don’t even know her favorite color. Her favorite book. What she liked to do after a long day, I barely know anything about her. I just…feel like a bad son.” He admits. The admission lifts a weight off him he didn’t know he’d been carrying. He may have only confronted this topic in order to shed light on a family secret, but that didn’t mean his feelings aren’t true.

A pause grows as Gabriel considers his confession. Finally, the silver-haired man sighs, bringing a hand to massage his temple. “Come with me.”

He rises from his seat and leads his son up the stairs. Adrien follows wordlessly, nervously anticipating whatever he’s about to be shown. They crisscross through hallways and unused guest rooms until Gabriel stops at door, pulling out a small golden key.

“This was your mother’s study,” Gabriel admits somberly, “I’ve kept it exactly as it was when she left.”

Adrien’s eyebrows raise. “I had no idea…”

“I couldn’t allow you to discover it before. You were a child, prone to destruction and desecration. You could have unknowingly marred your mother’s memory. Now…you are ready.” His father pulls open the door.

The study is chaotic yet cozy, lined with bookshelves filled to capacity with leather-bond tomes, acting awards, and souvenirs. A mahogany desk is center stage.  Framed family photos sit atop it and Adrien gravitates towards one he’s never seen before. Emilie, golden hair tucked into a loose braid, smiling at the camera with an infant Adrien in her arms. His father is there too, just behind her, arm cradling her lovingly. Though grainy, the picture clearly shows the love present in that moment. He feels tears threaten to spill.

“I’ll give you a moment alone,” Gabriel says, retreating from the emotional display.

Adrien gives himself a moment to grieve, clutching the photo to his chest. His heart clenches. _It’s been so long, but it still hurts so badly_. He squeezes his lids tightly, refusing to let any moisture escape _. Breath in, breath out. Alright. Now I must get what I came here for._

The photograph is placed back in its rightful place as the blonde begins his search. The room is packed with potential hints. It brims with the echoes of her old life. The best thing to find would be her journal, a record that could fill in all the blanks of her story.

Adrien scans the shelves, taking note of every title. He is distracted from his search by one of his childhood favorites, Le Petit Prince. He seizes the novel by its spine. Upon opening he discovers his mother’s annotations fill the margins. Little notes, underlines on the best quotes, even cute doodles of the characters. A warmth fills his chest and his lip quivers. _It’s like hearing her voice again._

It takes all his self-control, but he returns the book and continues searching. Title-less covers lure him into believing he’s found her journal only to be rustic reference guides or sketchbooks. One was in an entirely unfamiliar language. _It could be something, but I have no way of finding out._ He searches the last shelf with increasing desperation. A thick, worn leather book demands his attention. It feels surprisingly light in his grip. Some of the pages stick, and once he gets it open, he realizes it had been hollowed out. A rectangle was cut in center of its yellowing pages to form a small box.

Inside is nothing except a purely colorless peacock feather. Adrien does not touch it, fearing his skin would soil it. Could it be souvenir from a trip to Asia? A treasured find from a rare bird, or…could it be from his mother herself? His heartrate accelerates at the idea. _She wouldn’t have given such care to a mere trophy. Her animal must’ve been a peacock. Unless it isn’t, and I’m reading into this way too much._ He sighs with uncertainty and delicately closes the book. _If she was an albino peacock, it would have been very dangerous for her to transform in the wild. Many hunters wouldn’t hesitate to go after such a rare prize._ _Even other animals would spot her more easily against the greenery._ An uneasiness grows in his stomach and he hopes that his assumption was wrong.

Taking one last scan of the room, he says a quiet goodbye and shuts out the lights. Outside the door, his father waits, solemn as the grave.

“Thank you,” Adrien says, pulling his father into a hug. Painful as the experience was, he does feel closer to his mother now. Closer to the truth.

_Later that night…_

The floorboards of his house groan under the weight of his incessant pacing. He was wrong. If anything, the truth feels farther away. The feather alone says nothing. Proves nothing. The lack of evidence in Emilie’s study could have suggested his father’s ignorance or that his father knew everything and hid it all away. He runs a hand through his hair, threatening to yank it out if his frustration grows any more formidable. He directs his pacing towards the kitchen cabinets where he retrieves a bottle of wine. _If I can’t solve my troubles may as well get too drunk to remember them._

Just as the bottle is raised to his lips a bloodcurdling scream shocks him into loosing his grip. The bottles shatters on ground, pooling red liquid pooling at his feet. He ignores it, mind already racing. _That sounded like…Marinette?!_ He struggles to think of anything that would justify a scream of that intensity. Certainly not anything good. It doesn’t help that the neighbors would disregard a sound like that as another sign her house is haunted. None of them would be there to help her.

_But I will._ He races towards his door until another thought stops him in his tracks. _Whatever is bad enough to have made_ her _scream, I’m no match for. Not like this._

_The collar! I need Chat for this,_ he realizes, darting to where the enchanted object lies buried in a drawer.

It clasps around his neck, producing a now familiar tingle throughout his body. The adrenaline numbs the pain of transformation and he barely registers the discomforting sensation of fur sprouting around his cheeks and arms. The only emotion he feels is a brief spurt of gratitude that the collar didn’t turn him into a housecat this time. Everything else is melted away by a burning primal desire to find the threat and eliminate it.

As he scales the fence into Marinette’s property his heightened senses pick up an unusual scent. Its unnaturalness crinkles his nose, his face twisting in disgust. This unnaturalness is inherently different than Marinette’s. This one was as if someone held up a bouquet of flowers and instead of smelling a flowery perfume got a nose full of rancid meat. Despite the assault to his senses, he followed its trail.

It leads him to the back of her porch and through the decimated, shattered glass of the sliding door. Dark, black blood stained the edges of its ruins and dotted the floor. He crosses the threshold onto a scene that would’ve been comical if not for the dangerous stakes.

Marinette stands in a defensive stance atop her granite countertop, wielding a broom that points threateningly at the source of all this destruction—a massive stag, slices of ashy fur fallen away to reveal blackened, rotting muscle and protruding bone. Shards of glass protrude from its shoulders, yet it is undeterred, keeping its glowing amethyst eyes trained on its target. Its sharp antlers swing wildly towards Marinette, knocking the broom from her grasp.

Before the deadly spikes can get any closer to his partner Chat lunges at it, knocking it down and sinking his teeth into its jugular. He rips away a mouthful of decaying flesh. Tarlike blood fountains from the wound. He spits it out, wiping remnants away with the back of his claw when one of its legs lash out, kicking him in the diaphragm, knocking out his breath and sending him flying backwards.

He sits up and meets eyes with Marinette, still on the counter.

“It’s undead,” she tells him, more fear in her voice than he’s ever heard, “I don’t know how to kill it!”

The stag rises to its feet. Its horns lower to Chat’s level as it rushes towards him. With inhuman speed, Marinette is there in its way. Her hands latch onto its head. With a sickening crack, she snaps its neck.

It refuses to fall, lashing out and catching Marinette with one of its antlers. It pierces her torso and attempts throw her to the ground. Instead, she holds tight to its antler, severing it in her grip. Chat seizes this new vulnerability, swiping its legs on its defenseless side with his powerful claws.

The creature’s knees buckle yet it keeps fighting, mouth gnashing. Marinette gingerly pulls out the antler protruding from her torso and embeds it into the stag’s eye. When that doesn’t stop its movement, she continues, frantically stabbing it with its own horn. He leaps in to assist, holding down its still thrashing head. A far-fetched thought forms in Adrien’s head, inspired from watching too many zombie movies, and it somehow makes it past Chat’s lips.

“Its head. We have to remove its head.”

Marinette nods, burrowing one hand into a wound she created and the other holding onto its exposed rib. Chat grabs the back of its jawbones. They both count down from three and pull, yanking its skull from its spine. Once decapitated, it ceases moving. They collectively collapse, panting.

“What—What does this mean?” Chat gasps, still wheezing from his hit to the lungs.

“Necromancer,” Marinette gets out between heavy breaths, “There’s a necromancer in Paris. It should be impossible. Dark magic like that has been banned for centuries, all its grimoires burned, the teaching of it illegal. I thought it was extinct.”

“Why was it here? Why was it after you?” A pause.

“You know about Tikki. The way she killed that necromancer who “helped” her so long ago. Va—uh, my kind, has a long and complicated relationship with necromancy. We are the primary reason it is banned. I’ve probably been targeted as a part of that longstanding rivalry. How did you know to kill it by taking off its head?”

“…instinct,” he fibs, cheeks coloring. He could hardly admit to this amazing woman the only way he saved them is by being a massive dweeb. He picks himself up off the floor and notices Marinette leaning against the wall, nursing her stomach wound. “You took that hit for me. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Don’t want you to lose one of your nine lives, do I? Besides, I should be the one thanking you, for showing up for my rescue like that. How’d you know I was in trouble?”

A surge of pride puffs him up at his usefulness. It was like he’d said in the beginning. They’re equals, best working together. “Instinct,” he repeats with a smirk.

She raises a raven eyebrow. “What’s that look for?”

His Cheshire grin widens. “I think we make a pretty good team, princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Someone should tell Ladybug that green is not a creative color. Lol.


End file.
